


all the heights that i could reach

by psikeval



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Bottom Thor (Marvel), Dubious Consent, Gladiator Thor (Marvel), M/M, Memory Alteration, Possessive Loki, Power Imbalance, Public Sex, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-03 01:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12738582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: In which Thor Odinson lands on Sakaar, is entered unwillingly into the Contest of Champions, and just so happens to meet a handsome stranger in the Grandmaster's tower.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The transition from unconsciousness to waking is a drawn-out and painful one. Even with the blindingly bright illusions gone from his head, being a captive on Sakaar promises nothing but more unpleasantness. The colors, the sounds, the flashes of light — it is pure chaos, all the more overwhelming when Thor has not yet regained his bearings.

Music thrums through the walls and floor, while the Grandmaster’s guests fill the air with chatter and laughter that, at least to Thor, seem at odds with the places where captives and prisoners are strapped to their chairs, bound and ignored. He makes eye contact with one, a grey-scaled being slumped against their bonds, openly weeping. He does not repeat the mistake.

Something is not right here.

It’s impossible to say just why Thor looks up so sharply, so suddenly, to survey the garish crowd of partygoers – a flash of light, the tone of a certain laugh, or perhaps a set of footsteps that tell him, before the thought can even form, to brace for an attack — even, and especially, when he would rather shout with sheer relief. Thor knows this feeling, knows without a moment’s doubt who has landed here on this planet with him, and _the two of them are going to_ —

Four things happen, with a single result.

Thor reaches out and grabs Loki by the arm before he can pass by, pulling him closer to the chair that holds Thor captive, stopping him in his tracks. Loki’s eyes are wide and darting about, stunned, and when Thor opens his mouth Loki lifts a hand in warning. “Don’t,” he cautions.

“Oh now, bad behavior!” the Grandmaster _tsks_ , seemingly from miles away. It’s all the warning Thor has before the control chip activates, setting his blood and brain aflame, sending his body into violent, trembling spasms until it feels as if his bones will break. Still, he does not let go.

It is difficult to speak with teeth clenched against the pain. “Brother,” he forces out. “Wh—” 

Something else, different, hits him then in a blur. Perhaps the chip’s next weapon against stubborn slaves. A strike against the mind to worsen the agony of the body? Thor cannot say. He only knows that, for a moment, he does not feel tethered at all. It is like vertigo, a shattering wave of sickening, implacable impermanence, worse than being cast out of the Bifrost.

 

And then.

 

And then.

 

 

Thor stares at his own hand, wrapped around the forearm of a man he does not know, and cannot explain how any of this came to be.

 

 

\--

 

The stranger stares at Thor with unsettling intensity, inscrutable. Neither moves until the slightest narrowing of pale green eyes startles Thor into remembering where he is and what he has, inexplicably, done.

“Um— Apologies,” he says, fumbling words in his haste to release the man’s arm. “I thought you were…. well, I uh… I don’t know. It’s the strangest thing.”

“Is it, now.” The voice is low, silky.

“Sorry,” Thor says again shortly, unwilling on principle to spare further sympathies for anyone colluding with this Grandmaster. “Who are you?”

A quirk at the corners of thin lips; it seems Thor is amusing.

“I? A lord without lands. The second son of a crumbling house.” His smirk widens and he spreads his graceful, long-fingered hands, a gesture that seems to Thor more showmanship than courtesy. “And a visitor, like yourself. Though possessing far better luck.”

Thor huffs a low, grim laugh. “Yes, I see that, Lord…”

“Laufeyson.”

There is no reason for the name to ring false. Laufeyson is tall, slender, sheathed from neck to wrists in dark clothing. The effect emphasizes every striking, angular part of him: unearthly pale skin, dark eyes, and a mobile, clever mouth. Long black hair, slicked back but stubbornly curling where it falls around his shoulders. It reminds Thor so keenly, so precisely, of…someone.

Of course: Hela. His sister, the goddess of death. The confrontation on Midgard, after he and—

 

after Thor saw Odin’s spirit fade, alone on a cliff by the sea.

 

“I remember now. You look very much like my sister.”

Laufeyson lifts an eyebrow at him.

“I mean no offense,” Thor hastily adds. “You are both quite beautiful.”

This is clearly not what Laufeyson expected to hear; his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and even when his expression has been schooled into calmness Thor can tell that he is startled. Odd to be able to read a total stranger so well, when it has never been a particular talent of Thor’s — but then, it hardly matters. Or should not.

Yet Thor finds he cannot look away.

“Hm, do you watch your sister like that, too?” the Grandmaster asks him in a whisper, out of nowhere, leering at such sudden close proximity that Laufeyson balks and steps backward. Unfazed, their host pats Thor’s shoulder. “Listen, Lord of Thunder, I’m not here to judge.”

Topaz, a few steps behind, eyes the Grandmaster impassively.

“I mean, yes, in the sense that you’re now one of my very special contenders, making _me_ your… well. Who says you can say it too often, huh? Your Grand Master! Power of executions and all. And I know what you might be thinking—no pay, no benefits, odds of dismemberment, ‘ _nobody but the champions lives very long!_ ’ But hey, put _that,_ ” he taps Thor’s forehead with a finger, “on the back burner, right? Anybody might survive. That’s what I like to say.”

Thor glowers at him. “I’ll live to see your head on a—”

“ _Poster_ , better be the word you’re after,” says the Grandmaster, waggling a finger. It would serve better as warning had he not already cranked up the dial on the chip controller with his other hand. Thor, racked with violent convulsions, can barely focus enough to see the Grandmaster tilt his head to watch for a few moments before focusing his attention on Laufeyson. “The learning curve on some of these fighters, honestly, less than ideal.”

“Mm.” 

“Oh, me and my manners.” Without sparing Thor a glance, the Grandmaster deactivates the agonizing current coursing through him. He makes a bizarre tentative gesture towards Laufeyson, half concern and half distaste. “I should’ve asked, are you squeamish? I’m always telling myself, hey, keep the carnage in the arena, buddy! Of course it’s Sakaar, so usually I fail, and,” here he chuckles helplessly, shrugs, and looks back at Topaz, “we _have_ had those parties where the whole thing kind of centers around a melting. Always a good time.”

The two of them share a laugh, the kind that tends to escape when reminiscing over good times had and gruesome murders committed with impunity.

Laufeyson smiles thinly. “You needn’t worry on my account.”

“Awesome. Great. Good talking to you, Loafy.”

Thor watches him go, clears his throat, appreciates once more the long, slender lines of Laufeyson’s body, and weighs the odds of extra punishment versus the incredibly tempting opportunity before him. In the end, of course, he is who he is. “So… Loafy.”

“Not one word,” Laufeyson mutters, gesturing imperiously for Thor to hold his tongue—but when their eyes meet, Thor could swear he sees a carefully quelled trace of merriment.

Thor grins at him, utterly unrepentant, and is rewarded by the slightest curve of Laufeyson’s mouth. It seems enough encouragement to venture further conversation.

“You don’t strike me as a slaver,” says Thor, his voice amiable and kept low in a rare nod to discretion — whatever that chip does, to punish their fighters, it fucking hurts. “Why are you here?”

Laufeyson’s smirk only grows. “Hors d’oeuvres, for the most part. I love a good party.”

“Is that so.” Thor fails to fight off another smile of his own.

“Oh, yes.”

There’s undeniable _chemistry_ here, as the humans call it. Sparks of warmth and familiarity that could so easily turn intimate. It has always been one of Thor’s foremost pleasures, before even drinks or sparring: meeting women or men who send that anticipatory frisson down his spine, who make the darkest of rooms seem full of light and possibility. He simply finds it thrilling to chase that feeling rather than retreat, and sees to reason to curb the impulse now. Who’s to say where he might find allies? Or a night’s companionship, should this Laufeyson fellow be of a mind to grant him that?

Someone once said he’d flirt with a raindrop, if it held still for long enough.

  

(Why can’t he remember who it was?)

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

After a few hours of being strapped to a chair—particularly interminable once Laufeyson made himself scarce—Thor is taken away by guards to his actual quarters, a prison made for the slaves who fight. Or one such place, at least; by the looks of the tower from that damned scrapper’s ship, there must be hundreds of similar, and similarly foul, accommodations. Not all of the Grandmaster’s hospitality involves flirting with pretty men at parties, more’s the pity.

“This place, it’s— grotesque,” Thor says, because ‘filthy’ or ‘disgusting’ don’t begin to cover the blood, the dirt and encroaching rot, the corpses, the fluids of all kinds and ages smeared on every surface. Miek secretes something particularly foul, thick piles of a substance Thor has resolved never to question, or examine closely, or think about.

“Nn, yeah, not a lot of cleaning gets done ’round here. I tell myself it gives the place character, but probably that’s what a person starts to think when death’s all around and there’s no way out. Strategic denial. Hey, Miek,” he adds cheerfully as they pass Korg’s knife-handed friend again.

Thor does a double take again because it still does not come naturally, accepting the nature of this place. The path ahead leads so clearly away, and yet without doubling back or taking a single turn they find themselves in the same spot, over and over. A quiet, irrational part of Thor continues to hope that perhaps by persisting, or by taking his mind from the task, he will break what is surely an illusion. He has been hoping this for hours now.

He sighs and walks away from Miek and Miek’s secretions, for all the good it will do. Korg continues to amble slightly behind without complaint, though he does so in silence and offers no conversation until Thor speaks.

“This… ‘obedience disc,’ the Grandmaster called it. How does it work?” 

“Oh, that. Poison. Kind of a neuro-toxin thing. Like, if you made this fancy chemical, and all it does is make people feel like they’re burning from the inside out? That’d be it. Or maybe not quite it, but you’d be on track. Anyway, it kills you.” 

A coldness strikes at Thor’s heart, and he whirls around, walking backwards now. “What?”

“Not right away,” Korg assures him. “Just sort of builds up in your bloodstream until you’re all…well. You should’ve seen Agaefus before he went. Hey, Miek.”

The same blasted place again. Thor’s starting to recognize dents in the wall. “Do you suffer these effects?”

Korg shrugs, a slight and slow movement. “Only a bit. Perishable rock, but still more immune that most. And the crowds like me well enough. I reckon I’ve got lots of years ahead where I kill people who’ve done nothing wrong in the Grandmaster’s blood sports. Depressing, really.”

“Yes,” Thor can’t help but admit. “It is.”

There’s a lengthy wheeze which, Thor eventually realizes, is Korg sighing while gazing down at the blood-soaked floor they tread. “Eh. I guess failed revolutionaries could do a lot worse.”

“You seem very…composed about it all.”

“I get that a lot. Thing is, I don’t quite know how to stop? Dug used to be like ‘ey man, don’t you care?’ and I’d say ‘sure, Dug, but I can’t make lunch not full of maggots just by caring.’ That’s just one, pretty disgusting example. Most days it’s more death than maggots, which is…harder to pick out of bread, for one. And Miek liked eating them, didn’t you? Hey, Miek.” 

Thor veers slightly to avoid an unusually exuberant waving of Miek’s knife hands. It appears these two are quite fond of each other. “You adapted to survive. That is wise.”

“If you call it living. Which Dug didn’t. But now he’s even less living than before, so it’s kind of hard to know where he’d stand on that, at this point.”

“And you’ve never thought of making a bid for your freedom?”

“Me? Nah, mate,” says Korg, back to shaking his head like Thor has lost all sense. “Can’t cut a rock but you can crush it all right. And the champion? _Really_ likes smashing.”

 

\--

 

“ _He reeeally likes smashing!_ ” Thor mutters up at the ceiling in a high-pitched, raspy, mocking tone, when he wakes feeling as if all of Asgard fell upon his body. Or as if the Hulk, in full gladiator regalia, gleefully beat him senseless to the cheering of the crowd. “Idiot.” 

“There now,” says a soft, low voice nearby. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Thor lurches up onto his elbows and almost immediately regrets it. His bones ache from blows that would have crushed any mortal. The nauseating throb of pain in his head makes it difficult to focus his eyes on anything, and so it is a moment before he recognizes his visitor.

Laufeyson, lounging on a nearby couch, regards Thor with a look that coolly appraises the state of him. “I see you’re still alive.”

Not being foolish enough to think that he can stand with any sort of grace, Thor simply sinks back down. The floor is cool on his shoulders, and it is this, rather than the presence of a couch or Laufeyson upon it, that makes him realize he is not in a cell with Korg and the rest. He turns his head and frowns, squinting, at Laufeyson. “No thanks to the Grandmaster.”

“No.” Laufeyson’s mouth thins to a grim line. “You gave him quite a scare, outmatching his champion like that—if only for a moment, until he forced you back into line.”

The memory is fresh, and infuriating. Apparently there is nothing the Grandmaster won’t cheat to achieve. Thor glares up at the high white ceiling. “I could have beaten him.”

Adding to the sting, he knows, is that Banner would not listen to him. The Hulk may be a beast of another kind, but he has fought alongside Thor, and knows him as an ally. They were heroes, _Avengers_ , Hulk just as much as Banner. Can he truly be more satisfied in that damned arena, bludgeoning to death all challengers?

It appears that the answer is yes.

“How did you do it?”

Laufeyson does not explain, but his meaning is clear. The fight was well matched, with Thor perhaps at disadvantage, until it wasn’t — until he sent the Hulk hurtling through the sky with a searing power that could only be extinguished by the Grandmaster's poison in his blood.

That is difficult for Thor to piece together, harder still to put into words. Every punch from the Hulk’s massive fists had knocked all breath and sense from him, until there was nothing left to take — until everything within him was silent and still. It was then he thought of his father, stern against a stormy sky. He thought of what he lost, what had been taken, and something rose up inside him, a crash of thunder that shouted _no more_. And when he next struck out against the Hulk, there was no strength on this planet great enough to stop him.

“I don’t know that I can describe it.”

“Could you do it again? Now?” 

“No,” Thor says with barely a moment’s thought. “Whatever it was, it has gone out of reach.”

He sits up, with a suppressed groan and no small amount of effort, and becomes even more aware of Laufeyson’s eyes on him. There is, at present, quite a lot of Thor to look at. The bulk of his armor is gone, leaving him bare to the waist. Thor has never much cared whether or not he is clothed, but it seems his indifference is not shared. 

“Your hair is,” Laufeyson begins to say, but then draws his hands in closer to his body, fidgeting with the seams of his clothing. He only barely glances up at Thor. “Different.”

Thor runs a hand over his hair, as if to remind himself. “Yes. Am I no longer handsome?”

Laufeyson’s sigh is pure irritation, but he looks up again, as was Thor’s intention. “I suspect a far greater feat would be to make you no longer vain.”

“Do you often console the losers of the Grandmaster’s games?”

He laughs, an insincere flash of bared teeth that is inexplicably comforting. “No, I think not.”

“I’m special, then,” Thor says with confidence he does not quite feel—but he is unsure of this man, and has found few methods better than boasting to test the temperament of strangers. To that end, he gives Laufeyson a winning smile.

The reaction he gets is…odd. Laufeyson opens his mouth, half-smiling, to form words that certainly will not be flattering—but as Thor leans forward to hear it, Laufeyson seems to change his mind. He instead averts his gaze, breathing out slowly through his nose, leaving the exposed line of his neck to be admired.

Which Thor does, and gladly. What others might call a distraction or a weakness he considers to be sound strategy. He has fucked his way out of worse situations than this.

Finally Laufeyson sighs and appears to take a different approach. “Why is it you want to escape so badly?”

“What, aside from the slavery and being forced to fight to the death?” 

“Yes,” says Laufeyson, his mouth twitching. “Aside from that.”

“I must stop my sister from destroying Asgard and conquering all the nine realms.”

Something passes over Laufeyson’s face, a look that is horrified and beseeching and exasperated beyond measure. “And of course you would tell a stranger this,” he sighs, rubbing at his temples.

“You have little to gain by the knowledge,” Thor replies with utmost confidence.

A strangled, frustrated sound rises and dies in Laufeyson’s throat. “So, this sister.”

“She should never have escaped. But when…”

Thor’s mind simply _halts_ , like a skittish horse shying away from something in its path. When Odin died — but Odin should not have died. Not on some lonely Midgardian cliff, far from any realm that knew him. Thor found his father on Asgard, alive and well. Thor went to New York City and spoke to a wizard. Thor saw his father die in a place called Norway, and none of these things are connected as they should be. 

Steven Strange said that Odin was in exile, but who could exile a king? How had Thor simply trusted what he was told, traipsing from Muspelheim to Asgard to a sorceror’s chambers, when now not a single thread of the story can account for why he came to Earth at all? There could be magic at work here, and that possibility holds unspeakable menace.

Nothing holds true. As if the chaos of this place has seeped into everything he knows. Thor buries his face in his hands and tries, desperately, to think.

Laufeyson’s gaze on him feels tangible, forceful enough to constrict Thor’s throat. “I see.”

“Do you?” Thor laughs without humor. “Could you explain it to me?”

“That is not within my power.”

“Will you visit me again?”

Laufeyson stares. He wets his lips, a slow deliberate motion of his tongue, and Thor wants to curl into the length of Laufeyson’s body and kiss those lips open, to hold him pinned against a wall with Laufeyson’s legs wrapped around him, with a vividness that startles him.

“Please,” he says, his voice low and rough, and could swear that Laufeyson shivers.

There is a moment in which the hair prickles at Thor’s neck, when the twitch of Laufeyson’s jaw speaks of some unfathomable fury and the clench of his long pale fingers into a fist promises swift and violent relief. In the end, whatever the feeling is, Laufeyson holds it back.

“That’s enough now,” he mutters, standing — and right before Thor’s eyes, without a sound, his body flickers and vanishes from sight as if he never existed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone who's good at chapter lengths help me budget this, my family is dying

 

The room in which they’ve placed Thor now, perhaps to see how he fares after his bout with the Hulk, is surprisingly large and painfully garish. Everything is red and white, whether patterned or striped or simply covered in blocks of red-and-white paint—not even the high ceilings escaped the violent-looking pattern of diagonals that coats the walls and floor.

Every aspect of this place is an insult to all one’s senses, but at the moment Thor is paying it no mind. He sits facing the massive window that overlooks Sakaar’s endless sprawl of scrap and filth, and perhaps for the first time since his arrival, he has made himself silent and still.

“Heimdall,” he says softly, closing his eyes. “Heimdall, I know that you can see me. I need your help.”

For several long moments, Thor only sits in silence, waiting, hoping that he is right—because he does _not_ know that Heimdall can see him, not out here on some backwater garbage heap of a planet, in a corner of the universe charted by no one in the nine realms. He has never been so far from home before. Even in exile, he was never so lost.

Perhaps he should try again, with different, more compelling words. But what more can be said, if he is doomed to fail? Thor wonders if this is what humans mean when they speak of prayer.

“Heimdall,” he says once more, brow furrowed with concentration, before his next breath catches in his throat. There is, abruptly, a chill of recognition in his bones, as if a beacon of light has found him, fixed upon him, illuminating the whole of Thor from countless miles away. He is _seen_. Surely he need only wait for Heimdall to speak, now, even if the metal-chime ring of the Bifrost sword cannot sound here.

But as quickly as it came, the feeling disappears.

Then the windows shutter themselves, a near-deafening crash of metal plates slamming down over thick glass, and when it is done the entire room has gone black.

From the direction of the door, Thor hears a soft whirring sound, low to the ground.

He turns toward the source and waits, but all is darkness. “Hello?”

This is, it seems, the appropriate reaction.

“ _Hello,_ ” says a disembodied voice, as bright lights erupt around him, forming wholly unfamiliar constellations in the air. “ _The Grandmaster sends his regards and congratulations. You have been selected for a very special opportunity._ ”

“Oh not again,” Thor growls, sitting down heavily to wait this out. Better here, at least, than in that blasted chair.

“ _Here on Sakaar, once-worthless refuse may have value in many ways. Already you have surpassed those who will be among the Servile or meat for the scrappers. You may enter the Contest of Champions, or in lesser games of the Grandmaster, ensuring that, even in death, you will be known. Or you may bring pleasure to those who so generously provide for us all.”_

There is a dramatic sunburst in the center of the room, which disperses into smaller, equally dazzling tableaux. Among the stars are projected images of varied groups, most of alien races and some not even humanoid, all entwined to perform a comprehensive array of sexual acts. Their positions strike Thor as unnecessarily graphic, but then he hadn’t needed glittery holograms of a death match to understand the concept of gladiators, either.

“ _But what does this mean for you? Among those hand-picked to service Sakaar’s most honored guests, it is rare for anyone to be granted clemency and rise to the rank of concubine. Not all can be fortunate enough to gain the Grandmaster’s personal attentions.”_

Thor rolls his eyes and fights the urge to retch.

 _“A more realistic goal is to become a favored participant in the Grandmaster’s private entertainments. Not only can you experience the luxuries of those more fortunate; you will also be spared a grisly death in the arena,”_ — and here the holograms obediently change into what looks like Miek dismembering an Argonian on the sands — “ _a place few can hope to survive._ ”

“ _We hope you will choose wisely,_ ” the narrator says in the same cheerful tone. Around Thor, images of sex and death begin a slow orbit of the room, illustrating his options in explicit detail. He catches sight of Korg on the sands, and is unpleasantly reminded that a slow-moving creature made of rocks, when unarmed, has little strategy save sheer endurance and methodically bludgeoning opponents to death. It is difficult to watch.

The device on the floor, most likely a limited-mobility robot with means to project holographic images and audio, beeps jarringly at him. “ _We hope you will choose wisely._ ”

It seems he’s expected to answer, and has dallied too long.

Thor takes a breath and tries to think. Without his freedom, without Heimdall, without his hammer — what can he hope to accomplish, and what is the fastest route to it? Of course he will not die in the arena. That, he is sure of. And Korg did speak of earning the audience’s favor, as Thor so briefly managed in his bout against the Hulk. But a crowd is volatile, capricious. It would be far easier to know and to meet the needs of a single person, someone with greater power on Sakaar. But can he really count on finding such a person in this place?

_“We hope you will choose wisely.”_

 

\--

 

Several hours before the party, a small and richly dressed group of aliens enters Thor’s room.

The leader introduces herself as Rya’ru, or something similar—Thor attempts it, but cannot duplicate the precise movements of her thin purple tongue that form the sounds. He can, however, recognize her in an instant: the reflective black eyes, the oxblood-colored body with eight limbs and a painted carapace, the ornate silver bands circling each wrist and ankle.

“I remember you. Before the fight, you painted my face.”

She makes a muted gesture with all four arms, which Thor takes to be acknowledgment. “I prepare the Grandmaster’s property for what lies ahead, and attend to them after.”

“After…”

“Battles in the arena. Entertainments of all kinds.”

Beneath his knowledge of the words she speaks, granted to him by the Allspeak, Thor can hear the soft hisses and sighs of a language he’s never encountered. Most of its sounds are exhales of breath, punctuated by flicks of the tongue between the bottom and roof of the mouth. It is not useful to him in the slightest; he simply finds it interesting.

“And you would prepare me for this,” he surmises.

“According to your wishes. Some prefer to attend as they are. All that He mandates is that you be freshly bathed and free of disease.” And Rya’ru does say it precisely that way— _He_ —as if speaking of a god. Just when it seemed the state of things on this planet couldn’t get more disturbing.

Thor looks from her to the others, who stand waiting near the door. “I won’t say no to a bath.”

At a gesture, two of Rya’ru’s entourage uncover a control panel along the wall opposite the window—Thor tries to spy their access code but can’t quite follow the flurry of hands over unfamiliar controls—and moments later, a large tub slides out from the wall, already filling with hot water. The attendants begin to spill various bright-colored crystals and liquids into the bath, resulting in violently lavender foam, while Rya’ru ushers him towards it.

“Would you prefer we leave while you undress?”

Thor laughs, already peeling the armor from his torso. He should not laugh, he knows this, for the question is a kind one. It’s simply been many long centuries since he felt something so mortal as modesty. “Up to you,” he answers, deadpan, stepping naked into the tub.

Rya’ru waves the others forward, preempting his question of whether accepting their help would be morally sound; there was never a century in which Thor could argue much while being given a head massage. “You are very, very good at this,” he informs the creature behind him. In response Thor receives a rather loud, croaking chirp.

He glances back, perplexed. “I couldn’t understand that.”

“He is Nakkakiakor,” says Rya’ru distractedly, sorting through the contents of the bag she carried in. “The sounds he makes are emotive. He speaks entirely through gesture. What he meant was that he appreciates the compliment.”

“Huh.” The other attendants, more or less humanoid, have split up; one slips into the tub with Thor and begins rubbing a thick paste into his feet, massaging away ever cramped-up bit of tension, while the other kneels to the side and passes supplies to her compatriots as needed.

Rya’ru sits on a nearby divan, legs tucked beneath her. “Do you have any questions?”

“That,” Thor waves a hand, unwilling to spare much thought to a name, “little robot projector, the recorded message said something about the Servile. What did it mean?”

“Laborers of the lowest order, either pitied and despised or forgotten. They are not strong enough for the arena, nor fodder for His games, nor considered desirable for what you have been offered. Even the poorest of the city-dwellers spit upon them.”

“And that’s what he wants. Fighters hate the crowds, and the crowds hate the Servile, and the Servile, I’m sure, hate everyone,” Thor counts off on his fingers, eyes narrowed. “Everyone fighting for scraps while one man’s friends turn a profit and fuck who they like.”

“You are intelligent,” Rya’ru remarks mildly.

Despite circumstances, he grins. “Thank you.”

“That is not a compliment here. It will do you no good.”

“We’ll see about that.” Thor secures a bar of soap from the stockpile beside him and starts idly scrubbing at his skin. Now that a bath is actually possible, the feeling of accumulated grime from the past few days has become unbearable. “What can you tell me about tonight?”

“It will take place in the tower. Unlike what happens upon His leisure vessels, there will be many of His friends and guests present, with more single couplings than group endeavors. And we must set about making your cuff.” She brandishes a metal object, smaller than a vambrace, that looks roughly fitted to circle Thor’s wrist.

He wipes a bit of overzealously spread shampoo from his forehead. “What does that mean?”

“There are some guidelines to simplify matters, and the cuff is one of them It will be inset with telling stones. The stone or stones nearest your hand specify a gender preference.” Rya’ru opens the largest box, within which there are easily two dozen colors of polished, glittering rock. “With so many species on Sakaar, this array is not exhaustive, but—”

Thor lifts up his hands to stave off more explanation, sloshing water as he does so. “Is there one that just sort of… means you don’t care?”

Her lower left hand plucks a light violet stone from the box and sets it aside. The attendant in the tub with Thor is working the tension from his calves with hard grey fingers and it feels incredible, but it’s difficult to focus on any of that right now.

“White to dominate. Rose to submit. Black to stay out of those games.” Watching Rya’ru’s arms shuffle boxes between her lap and four hands is oddly mesmerizing, like a trick that Darcy once showed him with cups and a coin. There’s a third box of stones, small like the second. “Gold, to penetrate. Grey, to receive. Green for lack of preference.”

There’s more nervousness to his laugh than Thor would like. “Ah, well. No pressure.”

“Your cuff is not an edict. At most, it serves as a polite request.” Rya’ru hesitates with her eyes on the cuff, then gives Thor a meaningful look. “Not all the Grandmaster’s guests are polite.”

It should not cause such a twisting, nauseous feeling in his belly. Thor was never under the impression that this Grandmaster culled only from the willing, no matter what sort of entertainment his captives (his _slaves_ ) are being made to provide. In this, as in the arena, he will allow any harm to befall them, so long as it amuses the Grandmaster’s guests. Because Thor should know this, he takes a single, calming breath. “I guess it’s too late to back out now.”

A soft, trilling hiss whispers from Rya’ru’s throat. “Thor,” she says, struggling to pronounce that thick, alien name for which the translator can offer her no aid. “Thor, if I may…”

He smiles without humor and shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

“This is Sakaar. All of us will suffer. Often, the best we can do is to choose the manner of our suffering—to take the least harmful path and survive for as long as we can. From the hardest scrapper to the lowest of His slaves, it is so. You gained the crowd’s favor in the arena. There would be no shame in returning, if it would weigh upon you less than this.”

“There is shame in slaughtering innocents for another man’s sport.”

Rya’ru crosses both pairs of wrists, the silver bands ringing softly against each other, and draws her arms in towards her body in a gesture Thor can’t quite interpret. He sees sadness in her eyes, but also something that might resemble respect. “Then you are decided?”

Is he?

Ah, fuck it.

“Yes. Give me the black and grey.”

 

\--

 

Whatever shred of morbid curiosity Thor had regarding this bizarre new experience, it is sorely disappointed by what he finds when ushered in. Sex parties appear to start off much like regular parties, except that the cavernous room is dark and a few more people are naked. Guests are mingling with slaves, drinks are flowing, and if it weren’t for all the scattered tables stocked with supplies of a singular purpose, Thor might almost think he’d come to the wrong place.

There is one small blessing: the Grandmaster appears to be absent. Still, Thor does not relish the prospect of being made to converse with these people before they can get on with it.

He’s about to ask if there’s any sort of pamphlet guide to these events when he spies, not far away, a familiar figure dressed in dark silks. The sight brings — hope, relief, delight, a strong desire to make himself a nuisance. An odd mix of emotions, to feel so at home in his heart.

“Loafy!” he calls out in his most cheerful, grating tone. Even he is surprised by the speed with which Laufeyson rounds on him, wide-eyed.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses.

Thor tilts his head. “Are there really a lot of options?”

From the way Laufeyson’s eyes are darting around the room, it looks as if he’s considering all possible forms of escape, up to and including hurling Thor through a window. “There are not,” he concedes quietly, with a really striking amount of tension in his throat, every muscle and vein thrown into relief. Thor would very much like to bite him.

“While you’re here,” he says, lightly tapping Laufeyson’s chest. “Was that magic, what you did to visit my—”

But Laufeyson is very clearly no longer listening.

He seizes Thor’s wrist and turns it to get a better look at—what had Rya’ru called them? The telling stones. Laufeyson’s grip is nearly painful as he stares at the cuff, then at Thor.

“Do you know what these mean?”

“Of course.”

Laufeyson gapes at him, mouth forming a series of words he does not voice; instead he simply looks at Thor, wide-eyed, as if the world has turned quite abruptly upside down. Had he been hit in the face by Mjolnir, it would be hard to imagine a more stunned response. “But…why?”

Thor frowns and stays silent. Attractive as Laufeyson may be, he is a stranger, and the question is too personal. Why? Because Thor finds himself craving what often sates and soothes him when the burdens he carries start to overwhelm him. It is a luxury he seeks rarely but deliberately, whether or not it hews to others’ ideas of what befits a future king—all things being, by Thor’s reckoning, of equal merit, and none of it anyone’s business but his own.

Further: the single chance to win his freedom was a catastrophic failure. Thor is grasping now, he is desperate, and he has spent far too many hours alone and imprisoned, trying to properly plan an escape. He does not want to _think_ anymore. So if one of these people cares to use him thoroughly enough to drive the thoughts from his head, Thor intends to welcome it.

Simply letting Rya’ru’s group of attendants prepare him with slow, probing fingers, painstaking in their attentions and utterly unconcerned with his low groans of satisfaction, had been…a pleasant indulgence, to say the least. One that left him feeling quite ready, in every way possible, for the night that lay ahead.

Thor tugs his arm from Laufeyson’s dazed, lingering grip and is let go without a struggle.

“Don’t worry about me, if that’s what you’re doing. It was this or the arena.” Thor rocks slightly on the balls of his feet; even a day’s inactivity tends to chafe at him. “And besides, they sent people to see that I’d be ready and comfortable.”

Laufeyson is a very strange man, he thinks privately, to stare at him so.

“I see. You…allowed this?” he asks, and Thor can’t help laughing.

“There was a time I allowed it whenever I bathed.”

“You, the god of thunder? Who dared take such liberties?” There is a hollow smoothness in Laufeyson’s light-hearted voice, drawn tight, that might cover any number of emotions.

Thor squints and tries to recall. “One of the manservants, back on Asgard — Theron, I think his name was.”

Laufeyson’s smile is frozen in every sense of the word, brittle and cold. “He forgot his place.”

“Admittedly, I had issued ample invitation.”

“Oh, for—” He makes a short, vicious noise, half-turning from Thor. “Well of course you did.”

“You’re very familiar. With a fighter you barely know, I mean.”

This earns him a sharp glance, Laufeyson eyeing him with narrow-eyed intent until at last he seems satisfied. “My sincerest apologies.” It might be the _least_ sincere thing Thor has ever heard, but the dry, sardonic tone of Laufeyson’s voice invites further taunting.

“No no, please,” he assures smoothly, leaning further towards Laufeyson until only careful muscle control prevents their touching, and he is close enough to breathe the smoke-and-spices scent of whatever substance is taming Laufeyson’s hair. Close enough, certainly, to kiss, should Thor become very lucky indeed. He smiles. “Take all the liberties you like with me.”

Laufeyson places a hand between them, which means he touches Thor’s chest, pressing slightly on his armor. “You tread a dangerous path.”

Thor shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. Or perhaps I just don’t fear what lies ahead.”

“And do you think that’s wise?” Laufeyson asks, eyes glittering in the dark.

All he can say for certain is that it feels _un_ wise to say that Laufeyson is beautiful tonight, lithe and pale in his dark tailored clothing, the long tapered fingers of one hand wrapped delicately around the glass he holds. His eyes, ever darting between Thor and the rest of the party, are striking by nature and by design, lined with black in the popular custom of Sakaar.

“I think,” Thor says softly, voice low and intimate—but he is interrupted.

“The Lord of Thunder!” exclaims a garishly dressed male guest, Achernonian by his looks, heedless of Thor’s quiet mutter of _‘god_ ’ and Laufeyson’s quickly suppressed smirk. “You gave us quite a show the other night. Don’t suppose that lightning trick has any other uses?”

Thor does not say “ _I would like to test it out on one of the Grandmaster’s slobbering lackeys,_ ” because he’s had quite enough of the control disc’s brand of punishment and it will be difficult to bed these people by way of openly despising them. At least, he thinks it would be.

Truth be told, Thor does not know what will happen here. He knows he was invited, as a guest, but holds those words as hollow as anything out of the Grandmaster’s mouth. It’s very possible they mean to have him, with or without his being an active participant. The disc in his neck could make him pliable enough for any number of indignities.

Absently, he notes that several guests have taken to couches or beds with one another, at last commencing the night’s intended activities. They’re being rather loud about it, to be heard over the ambient music.

“Vurnath,” says Laufeyson, inclining his head in acknowledgment.

The Achernonian—Vurnath, apparently—eyes Thor up and down with crude, transparent interest of the sort that’s probably accepted on Sakaar, at events like this. When lusting after people who are nothing more than property. Thor really, truly hates this place.

“Asgardian, isn’t he? Heard they’re harder than most to break in.”

Laufeyson’s smile is tight and noncommittal. “Wiser, perhaps, not to try.”

“Oh no,” Vurnath laughs, never taking his eyes off Thor. He’s several inches taller and built like an ox; Thor would kill him in a fair fight. There will not be a fair fight. “No, I think I will.”

Thor _hates_ this place. He hates this planet, this room, these people; the Grandmaster and all who aid him; handing himself over for any slim chance at freedom; feeling afraid of a man who, days ago, he could have easily murdered for his presumptions.

“Flattered,” he lies, smiling, “but I’m afraid someone’s already laid claim to me.”

With a single deliberate step, he places himself just behind Laufeyson, who, beneath his fixed smile, looks ready to rip out Thor’s throat with his bare hands.

Vurnath recovers from his disappointment quickly.

“Oho! Now that should be a spectacle.” He soundly claps Laufeyson’s shoulder with one huge purple hand, jostling him forward. “I think I speak for us all when I say we’ll enjoy watching you have him!”

“Yes. Delightful,” says Laufeyson, cheerful and charming and absolutely ready to stab them all; of this Thor is certain. He’s a little surprised that the others can’t see it.

Laufeyson hooks a hand in Thor’s armor and drags him away, out of earshot. For the first time since arriving on Sakaar, Thor is more than willing to be led. His heart is still pounding, and part of him can’t quite believe his gambit worked. “Thank you.”

“Don’t _thank_ me,” Laufeyson snaps. “Did you hear what he said? They’ll be watching.”

Without quite meaning to, Thor smiles, and raises a hand to tuck a few curls behind Laufeyson’s ear, because he seems the sort of man who likes to be neat and tidy. This, Thor can handle. This, he might actually enjoy. “Then I guess we’d better give them a good show.”

He leans in, slowly, ducking his head, for a kiss.

Laufeyson seizes his jaw in one hand and pushes up in a single rough motion, tipping Thor’s head and baring his throat. Thor goes willingly enough, despite his disappointment.

“Stop that,” Laufeyson orders, though his hand and his voice are unsteady. “This isn’t…”

“Want to tie me up?” Thor suggests. “I think that would help convince them.”

He speaks with sincerity, but Laufeyson stares at him as though Thor has lost his mind.

They’re already near a sturdy-looking column with an ingenious, if overly ornate, pulley system for adjusting the height at which one will tie one’s partner. Admiring technical craftsmanship seems the surest way to avoid killing everyone in this damned place.

Thor takes a deep breath, clears his mind as best he can, and unbuckles the top half of his armor and pulls it over his head, letting it fall with a heavy thump onto the floor.

“ _Would you—_ ” _stop_ , seems the likeliest word, but Laufeyson does not say it; he simply stares with his throat working rather violently around the shape of whatever he means. He bites his lower lip, viciously by the looks of it, and turns away from Thor, then back.

Rather than respond, Thor waits it out. Obviously what’s done to him tonight will be, in many ways, out of his hands. Vurnath, and some others, are unsubtly circling nearby. He’d much rather have this, if Laufeyson will cooperate, but he doesn’t intend to beg for it.

The tension in Laufeyson’s jaw is truly something to behold.

“Fine,” he finally bites out. “Take off your clothes.”

Thor beams at him, because it makes Laufeyson look as if he’s going to have an aneurysm, and toes off his boots before applying himself to the convoluted mess of fastenings on his pants. They are some sort of shiny leather, tight enough that he peels them off by inches while aware of Laufeyson’s eyes, and the eyes of several others, upon him. Only when he’s undressed, and Laufeyson is unfastening his own pants just enough to extricate his cock, does it occur to Thor that he might be expected to ready his partner.

“Do you need me to—” Thor leaves the sentence unfinished; it’s quickly and abundantly clear that no assistance is needed. He looks, and then looks again, because from Laufeyson’s slender build he had not extrapolated…that.

Aware of Laufeyson’s raised eyebrows, Thor coughs to clear his throat. “Impressive.”

“I can’t tell you how much your approval means to me,” Laufeyson says in his silkiest tone. In the room’s dim lighting it is impossible to be sure that his face is flushed.

Even in a setting such as this, it feels indecent how badly Thor wants to touch him; he noses a few curls away from Laufeyson’s cheek, dragging his mouth along the skin as he goes. His fingers skim down the thin silk front of Laufeyson’s shirt, lingering low on his belly. “May I?”

With startling speed, Laufeyson catches his wrists and shoves them away. “Turn around.”

He binds Thor’s hands at eye level, rather than raising them to place him off-balance, and tests the give of the ropes around each wrist. It would be simple enough to break free like this with one hard pull, but he cannot tell if Laufeyson knows, or cares.

“Ready when you are,” he says over his shoulder.

Whether or not he is meant to, Thor feels a long, unsteady exhale of breath upon his back. His hips rut forward involuntarily when Laufeyson’s hands slide down his ass, spreading him, making room for the blunt head of Laufeyson’s cock to be pushed inside.

It aches at first, until Thor’s body remembers the way of it and the worst of the tension shudders out of him. Laufeyson’s cock is slicked with oil that drips into Thor and down his thighs, and he inches in with near-agonizing slowness, in stops and starts that have Thor breathing through clenched teeth, biting back a command for _more_. It has been quite some time.

The more Thor takes, the tighter Laufeyson holds him, with arms wrapped around Thor from behind and fingernails scratching over Thor’s chest and belly — clawing, really, as if Laufeyson can’t get close enough. His forehead presses down between Thor’s shoulder blades, his breath warm, uneven gasping as he slowly slides deeper, and deeper, until his hips are pressed hard against the flesh-and-muscle bulk of Thor’s ass, his cock completely buried inside. Laufeyson bites at his shoulders but can’t quite muffle the soft, whining moan that escapes.

Thor, for his part, turns his head as best he can and grins. “Good.”

“Are you... sure you’re comfortable,” Laufeyson mutters in a hoarse, stilted undertone—not quite a question, with the way he’s clutching at Thor’s sides, but an effort at one. Appreciated but unnecessary. Thor might not have much in the way of choices on Sakaar, and he may be the one who is captive and tied, but he does not lie; he said it was good and he meant it.

“Yes,” he says, rocking his hips back, relishing the drag of Laufeyson’s cock inside him with every movement. “Now… why don’t you show me what you can do?”

And, after delivering a deliciously painful bite to Thor’s shoulder, Laufeyson does.

He starts slow, pausing more than once to slick himself again with oil, until his every move is wet and messy and ‘ _comfortable’_ is the mildest possible word for how Thor feels. He nearly writhes out of his skin the first time Laufeyson nearly pulls out, deliberately teasing back and forth with the head of his cock, then buries himself inside Thor again in a single swift motion.

“Do try to keep up,” he says in Thor’s ear, with such deliberate insolence that Thor laughs aloud.

The laughter fades when Laufeyson picks up his pace.

Even as they move more urgently, sweat building between them, there is a certain amount of grace in this: with Thor the taller, Laufeyson rocks up onto his toes with every thrust and still makes each one punishing, building up an ache in Thor that throbs and spreads until his whole body feels hot and well used, his own cock painfully hard and untouched between his legs.

He finds that if he braces his forearms on the pillar in front of him, it’s easier to push back, until he’s being fucked with a force and speed that crawl up his spine, leaving him dizzy and half-numb with need, and Thor _knows_ he can come like this, given the chance; he is edging closer with every moment, bound hands clutching uselessly at the column’s smooth surface —

— until, without warning, Laufeyson withdraws.

For a moment Laufeyson simply stands there, the heat of him still pressed to Thor’s back, gasping raggedly for air. Thor knows he has done it to keep from being spent too soon, but that doesn’t make the loss any easier to bear.

He looks back over his shoulder, licks at his lips and tries to recall how to speak. “You shouldn’t deny yourself,” he says. “Finish this, let another have me, and return when you’re able.”

“ _Another?_ ” Laufeyson repeats with cold precision, the black of his eyes chilling against the ice-white pale of his skin. “I think not.”

“Please,” he tries; it seemed to have an effect before. “I would have you inside me again.”

Possessed of a sudden need to steady his hands, Laufeyson digs his fingertips harder into Thor's side.

“Get on the floor. On your hands and knees.”

With Laufeyson’s help in lowering his restraints to the level of the ground, Thor obeys, bracing himself on his elbows when it's clear his wrists can't bend the way he needs them to. In little enough time Laufeyson is draped over him, placing a slow, scorching line of kisses down Thor’s spine, licking beads of sweat from his skin. The length of his cock occasionally brushes between Thor’s legs, or against the backs of his thighs, but he never lingers. It seems Laufeyson is hell-bent on denying himself.

Rather than stop at the small of Thor’s back, he continues, spreading the cheeks of his ass with both hands. His intent is unmistakable, but Thor still has to stifle a shout at the first swipe of Laufeyson’s tongue, teasing in slow circles before it presses in. He’s fucked open enough that there is no resistance, nothing to impede the steady, curling thrusts of that clever tongue inside him.

Laufeyson takes his time, eating him out with meticulous, single-minded focus until Thor is moaning and straining uselessly at the rope around his wrists, his untouched cock jerking and dripping onto the floor. Between the lubricating oils and Laufeyson’s spit he is soaking wet, obscenely slick for the two fingers Laufeyson slips inside to test the feel of him.

“All right,” he murmurs against Thor’s thigh, perhaps to himself, before expertly getting the leverage he needs to flip Thor onto his back. 

Fortunately, there’s no hesitation from Laufeyson now. He bites down hard on his lip as he slides back into Thor, slumping like the breath has been punched from his lungs, grateful and winded. Like a man who’s come home. Laufeyson takes a shallow, shaky breath.

It’s easy now for Laufeyson to fuck him at a breakneck pace, hair falling around his face. Both of them unravel more with each snap of his hips, smacking audibly against Thor’s ass and still nearly drowned out by the low, desperate sounds pouring from Laufeyson’s throat.

He wraps one still-slick hand around Thor’s cock and strokes roughly, the pace of it almost too much except that Thor’s hips are jerking and his cock dripping-wet, hard enough to hurt. Laufeyson’s knuckles drag through the mess of precome on his belly, smearing it further with every pass of his hand from the base to the tip of Thor’s cock—he drags his palm over the head in a vicious twisting motion and the sound Thor makes is caught between a shout and a sob.

“ _Will you just—_ ” Laufeyson’s voice is a strangled hiss, every thrust into Thor more erratic as he tries to hold off. Then he flicks his fingers and it feels as if his touch has multiplied, as if there are dozens of hands on Thor’s cock, teasing at the tight weight of his balls and behind them, to where Laufeyson’s cock has him stretched open—scratching across his skin—

Thor thinks that perhaps he blacks out, for a moment. His muscles strain and cramp and all the light and sound goes out of the world, there is nothing, nothing but this, his tied hands clawing at nothing and the helpless spasms of his body as Laufeyson fucks him through it. All around them is scattered applause and murmurs of approval, and these too feel very distant, unimportant. The slide of Laufeyson’s cock inside him makes Thor’s whole body feel liquid, heavy and warm and rocking slowly back against each push of Laufeyson’s hips.

“Now?” he mumbles, low in his throat, so only Laufeyson can hear.

It’s all the invitation that is required. Laufeyson is already shaking, his movements clumsy for the first time as he fumbles his grip at the bulk of Thor’s thighs, the backs of his knees. A mess of black curls falls over his face as he slumps down, fucking Thor at a dizzy, frantic pace until Laufeyson cries out and comes in great shuddering spasms, hips rocking desperately against Thor as if he can’t get close enough—like he wants to be consumed by it.

In the aftermath, Laufeyson is trembling. He lays there, sprawled on top of Thor, still buried inside him, until he gathers the strength to push away with shaky arms and slide back down, between Thor’s legs.

His tongue laps at the head of Thor’s softening cock, which has the gall to twitch under Laufeyson’s ministrations, as if it could possibly stiffen again. Laufeyson then takes as much into his mouth as he can, ever so gently, all soft tongue and the silky wet insides of his cheeks, and pulls away slowly. When he does let go it is to bury his face against Thor’s skin, licking drips of oil and precome from the base of his cock—and then he simply moves upwards.

Thor means to say _you don’t have to_ , but when he hears the broken, starved sound Laufeyson makes against his skin, it occurs to him that ‘have to’ might not be an issue. So he simply watches Laufeyson lick up the come from his belly, tongue sliding with care along every curve of muscle, even after the skin is clean and shiny-wet from his efforts.

Even after Laufeyson has finished the task he set for himself, he seems loath to move. He lingers, sucking a bruise over Thor’s ribs, and only when the shaky cascade of Laufeyson’s breathing has turned steady and slow against his chest does it occur to Thor that, in cleaning him up so thoroughly, Laufeyson has also been hiding his face.

No sooner has the thought cross Thor’s mind that Laufeyson is moving. With startling swiftness, he unties Thor’s wrists and rises to his feet, his clothes already somehow back in place.

“Get up,” he says, his tone clipped and severe and very much undercut by the mess of his hair and the scent of sex that lies thick between them. “Bring your clothes.”

Thor does so, thinking that whatever manner of being Laufeyson might be, he seems to have strange powers when he likes. Nothing Thor can possibly sort out now. He follows, and stops up short only when Laufeyson does—because Vurnath has stepped into their path.

Almost immediately, Laufeyson’s posture changes, his spine held straight and his chin jutting out, oozing chilly condescension without words. “If you’d excuse me,” he says, so silkily it can only be taken as a warning of what might befall a person, should they refuse. “I’ll be taking this man to the baths.”

“Oh? You’re a greedy one,” Vurnath says with an irritated edge to his voice.

Laufeyson smiles thinly, his eyes a silent, taunting threat. “Always.”

“You know, He won’t be having your back forever,” says another scowling guest, a Kree, but Laufeyson is already ushering Thor away with a hand on the small of his back.

“Charming conversation, as ever,” Laufeyson calls over his shoulder, before he taps a button on the glossy black wall and all but shoves Thor into an elevator. There, Laufeyson studies all three possible controls (up, down, and stop) assiduously, as if meaning to divine their secrets and not remotely interested in avoiding eye contact with Thor.

The elevator stops with a cheerful, hollow _ding_ , and Thor follows Laufeyson down an empty tiled hallway into what is, indeed, a large public bath. At least, based on what he knows, Thor assumes it is a place for the Grandmaster’s guests to use at their leisure. It is currently quite private, as they are the only ones here.

“There,” says Laufeyson shortly, gesturing towards the steaming water.

Rather than try to parse the fluctuations of Laufeyson’s temperament, Thor drops his clothes in the floor and lowers himself in, hands braced on the edge of the pool. He would, honestly, be more than willing to forego bathing for another round, but perhaps that’s considered uncouth around here. Big on hygiene, lax on slavery. He’s heard of stranger planets.

Thor bites his lip to stay silent while cleaning himself out with two fingers, rubbing Laufeyson’s come from between his thighs. He’s still sensitive enough that his legs tremble. It’s really very difficult to focus on something that isn’t…this.

“Don’t suppose you’d like to help?” he offers hopefully, but Laufeyson only makes an extremely sour face at him.

“I’m sure you’ll manage bathing on your own, your majesty.”

“Mm.” Thor tosses and catches a bar of soap, missing Mjolnir. “What I meant was you could get down here and fuck me until I forget my own name.”

Perhaps it’s the brighter, blue-tinged lighting of the baths, but Laufeyson looks very, very pale just now, like a sculpture made of ice. Bloodless and utterly still. Even when the effect is broken, he does not refuse or equivocate, simply turns away and busies himself with the cuffs of his shirt. As if Thor doesn’t exist at all, which seems unnecessarily harsh.

“All right, fine,” Thor sighs, trying not to feel a little stung by it. He contents himself with a quick, perfunctory wash and levers himself out of the tub to get a towel. They are large and clean and fluffy. He’s starting to see the perks of playing the bed-slave for men like Laufeyson.

Well…aside from the benefits already reaped, that is. His legs still feel a bit unsteady from how thoroughly and well he’s been fucked. Under the guise of drying his arms, Thor steals a glance at Laufeyson, who is once again staring with great intensity at a wall.

The itch beneath his skin is not entirely satisfied, and the night is young. They could go on like this, return to the party, as a pair. He thinks the others could do whatever they like with him, if he could just bury his head in Laufeyson’s lap and forget they exist. It wouldn’t even be such a difficult task, with those clever fingers stroking through his hair.

“I wouldn’t mind returning,” he finally says into the silence — rather mildly, by his own estimation.

From the way Laufeyson’s head snaps up, the biting disbelief in his eyes, it seems there are mixed opinions on the subject of Thor’s tact. “I’m sorry, have you not had enough?”

Thor laughs and gives him a broad, indolent grin. “Not even close.”

“Of course. What was I thinking. The mighty Thor, the would-be king of Asgard,” Laufeyson snarls with his teeth bared, pacing forward — until Thor feints towards him and Laufeyson skitters back, abruptly pressed between Thor and the wall. His voice, at least, remains undaunted: “And here you are, days after your capture, setting it all aside to be passed around like a whore.”

Thor raises his eyebrows at _that_ turn of phrase, unreasonably amused.

“Now you’re getting it,” he murmurs, half-laughing despite himself — but when Thor leans in to pin him properly, Laufeyson disappears.

“We can find a way to escape,” his tense, hurried voice says from behind Thor. It’s a pretty little trick, Thor has to admit, even as he turns to face the real Laufeyson.

“We?” he repeats, raising his eyebrows. “So we’re a team now?”

There is murder in Laufeyson’s eyes. “ _Will you shut up,_ ” he hisses, his outstretched hands curled like claws. _“_ I need you to wait. I need you to be patient and not cause any more disasters.”

“What do you mean, disasters? What have _I_ done?” Thor asks, indignant.

“Damn it,” says Laufeyson with great sincerity, raking back a wayward curl and then pulling sharply at his hair with both hands. “You were never going to make this easy, were you.”

“Have you lost all sense?”

As if to prove him right, Laufeyson steps close again, staring straight at Thor’s eyes. “Hit me.”

His tone couldn’t be less seductive, and still, the first thought to pass through Thor’s mind is that he’s not inclined to treat his bed partners so — and besides, it’s not as if he’ll simply strike someone on request and hope it’s what they wished for. For one thing, he is Asgardian; Laufeyson could end up seriously hurt.

“Not _that,_ ” Laufeyson snaps, exasperated, shoving at Thor’s chest. “ _Hit_ me, like you mean it.”

Nothing on this damned planet ever makes sense. “What?”

“All right,” he glares at Thor and begins to explain in an overloud whisper, exaggeratedly miming the words as he goes. “You hit me, the guards take you away, you’re safe in the arena ‘til I make my next move.”

“Safe?” Thor scoffs, half-laughing.

“From the vultures back there who’d like nothing more than to break you, yes.”

“I’d like to see them try,” he says, but Laufeyson’s dark, desperate gaze lands on the chip embedded in his neck, before he forces himself to look back at Thor, and his eyes are half-feral with emotion Thor cannot interpret. Better, perhaps, to try a different tack. “This is madness.”

“Oh, trust me,” Laufeyson says with a strange, crooked smile as he spreads out his arms, a clear and cheerful invitation for violence. “It’ll be a lot more satisfying than you think.”

“Whatever game you’re playing, I want no part in it.”

Thor squares his shoulders, eyes narrowed in an effort to catch any hint of sorcery. He watches, properly suspicious now, as Laufeyson looks skyward with exasperation, then deflates with a sigh. He gives Thor a thin-lipped and blatantly false smile.

“Have it your way, then.”

Laufeyson drops his head, spreads out his arms and takes a deep breath — and something in the air comes _alive_. It slams directly into Laufeyson’s face, bloodying his nose, then hurls him bodily across the room — and Thor can’t see it, he can’t see a damned thing, only knows that while he watches Laufeyson is struck down to his knees and takes a horrible blow to his ribs, judging by the awful cracking sound that accompanies it.

He means to shout, to call for help, but Laufeyson beats him to it.

“Guards,” he screams at the top of his lungs, startling Thor a step backward. “ _Guards!_ ”

They arrive in short order, in a loud stampede of armored feet, flooding into the room with weapons raised. It is only then Thor sees what is happening, and curses himself for a fool.

“Wait,” he tries to shout over them. The disc in his neck is activated before he’s even half-formed the word, and Thor topples, convulsing, face-first onto the floor. He nearly turns his head to look at Laufeyson, to try and understand — but one of the guards cranks up the controls, releasing a fresh rush of poison in his blood, and the entire world goes dark.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the spiral is happening live on [tumblr](https://psikeval.tumblr.com)


End file.
